Big Boy Did It and Ran Away (27 page)

A lie, the truth, which one should he use? He opted for a mixure of both.

‘I owe him,’ Simon said, placing the pistol down on the inflatable raft, eyes locked on May to make sure he would do the same with his blade. ‘I knew him a long time ago, when he was a student. Not here, before your wheels start whirring. He did an overseas year. You’ll understand if I don’t specify where.’

‘I knew it. You’re playing with fire, and we’re all holding sticks of dynamite. What’s this about?’

‘That part is none of your business. There was a girl involved, you don’t need to know the rest.’

‘Vengeance is for your spare time. You don’t bring it to work.’

‘I didn’t plan it, Brian. I saw him at the airport when I was here on reconnaissance last month. Bang, there he was, just standing there. What were the fucking odds? We made eye contact. I don’t think he recognised me, but that’s not something we like to leave to chance, is it? So when the word came through that Mopoza feared a leak, I figured if we had to do him anyway …’

‘Happy little coincidence for you.’

‘Well, when you kill as many people as I do, it kind of skews the odds. Anyway, if I really had a hard‐
on for settling my score with this guy, do you think he’d still have been alive to show up at that airport?’

May flared his nostrils. He was losing his stomach for the debate, at long fucking last. ‘Point taken.’

‘Good. Don’t suppose you’ve got a phone handy, amid your wetsuit arsenal?’

‘In the crate. Now tell me one last thing.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Simon turned his back and reached into the box. He knew what was coming and didn’t want eye contact, even in the half‐
light.

‘This Darcourt guy he mentioned …’

‘No idea.’ Simon located May’s phone and flipped it open, speed‐
dialling Taylor as he turned back around. ‘I mean, I can make some shit up if you want,’ he added, smiling.

May rolled his eyes and held up his palms. Enough.

Taylor answered after four rings. ‘Ready, Freddie?’ he asked.

‘Roger, Roger. Gig confirmed. Tour truck good to go?’

‘Roger.’

‘Good. And Roger?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Is the dressing room prepared?’

‘Roger.’

‘Okay. Give the groupie his backstage pass.’

‘Roger. Oh, and Freddie?’

‘Uh‐
huh?’

‘Can you name a rock band without anyone called Roger in it?’

‘Of course. Dozens.’

‘Well, bear that in mind next time. Roger and out.’

‘I’m burstin’ for a pish.’

‘Again?’

‘It’s been hours, Lexy.’

‘Has it fuck. It just feels like hours ’cause we’re still stuck in here.’

‘Well it’s how it feels in ma bladder that matters, innit?’

‘Your ain fault for drinkin’ that much ginger.’

‘Aw gies a brek. I’m startin’ tae taste pish in the back ay ma throat, it’s that far up.’

Though he’d used it plenty of times, Lexy had not previously understood why the phrase ‘shiting yourself’ was used to describe being afraid. He now knew that this was because he had never experienced true fear. Fear up until this morning had been what you felt when you turned up at the volcanic Mr Fennell’s class and suddenly remembered you’d forgotten to do your Geography homework; or the sensation when some swine accurately deduced that you fancied a particular girl and then threatened to tell her. These were tinglings, at most that washing‐
machine feeling in the pit of your stomach. What he had felt in the back of that truck today, however, was the spin cycle, and he was very grateful for having had a major dump prior to his dental appointment, or else the smell might have given them away.

Being desperate for a pee, on the other hand, had actually been a good thing, because if that was all he could think about, then at least it took his mind off everything else. Eventually, however, they’d both had to find some relief before an involuntary puddle betrayed their location.

After the truck stopped and the cars were unloaded, it had been ages before they ventured to have a keek out from behind the blankets. Every time either of them was about to chance it, there would be another noise close by: people walking up into the container or voices passing outside, mostly English, with one Scot and a few foreign. It sounded like there was a lot of loading going on: items being carried in, sometimes by two men at a time, going by the voices; heavy too, from the grunting and straining. Other articles were on wheels, but still required some noisily committed pushing to get them up the ramp and into position. Lexy was imagining them being at the back of Tesco’s or somewhere, picturing squeaky‐
wheeled pallets and stacks of heavy cartons. Whatever it contained, it sounded like a major delivery.

Every time he’d heard an approach, Lexy felt his guts turn to mush as it seemed only a matter of time before they were found out. Men had stood close enough to the pile of blankets for him to hear their breathing, which required him and Wee Murph to silence theirs. Fortunately, this was something he could do without holding his breath, a trick learned playing hide‐
and‐
seek‐
in‐
the‐
dark at his cousin William’s house. Quiet as he could keep his mouth, there were nonetheless moments when his heart seemed to beat loud enough to be audible from outside. The worst time was when one of the men began grabbing blankets from the pile and throwing them over whatever he had brought inside. Mercifully, he stopped at three, though Lexy was still sure it must have been enough to reveal a shape underneath the pile that remained.

Finally, eventually, the loading had stopped, or was at least suspended. The toing and froing ceased, and the voices outside died away one by one.

‘I’m havin’ a look,’ Murph whispered.

‘Wait another wee second.’

‘We’ve waited ages.’

‘Just another wee second to be sure.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘Shhh.’

‘Right I’m lookin’ noo.’

‘Hing on, I thought I heard somethin’.’

And so on, until Murph lost patience and with a loud tut, stuck his head out from behind the pile.

‘It’s awright,’ he whispered. ‘Naebody’s here.’

Lexy pulled the jaggy blanket away from his face, tentatively, like yanking it back again would protect him if he was seen. It worked against monsters in the middle of the night when you were about five, but was probably not a viable defence under these circumstances.

The container was full of plastic crates of assorted sizes and colours, surrounding the three large blanket‐
covered objects in the centre. Out the back door they could see trees, rough grass, cars and the edge of a building, as well as more boxes presumably awaiting transit.

Working out where they were and what was going on took second priority to having a slash. The difficult question was where. Wee Murph didn’t let this issue trouble him quite as much, telling Lexy to keep the edgy while he fired into one of the empty wooden crates that had been up the back when they first got on board.

‘Aw shite. It’s leakin’ oot,’ he hissed.

‘Stop then.’

‘I cannae.’

‘Fuck.’

There was urine seeping from under the crate while Murph was still peeing like a horse. Lexy had to grab a blanket to stem the flow, then threw another one into the box to soak up what was still hosing out.

‘Should’ve used a plastic wan, ya fuckin’ eejit.’

‘I couldnae wait.’

‘Christ.’

With Murph finally done, Lexy popped the first blanket inside the wooden crate also and replaced its lid, then began looking for a receptacle of his own. Wee Murph moved quietly down the truck, his attention taken more by the containers than by checking out for intruders. Lexy opened a plastic crate, revealing a pile of folded uniforms bearing the name Highland Hydro, as modelled quarterly by the man who came to read the meter. He gave their absorbency a thorough test then replaced the lid, by which time Murph had opened another box.

‘Walkie‐
talkies,’ he whispered excitedly, picking one up to show off.

‘Put that back.’ Lexy ordered, though with neither reason nor authority. He just felt that someone had to be using their heads round here and the chances were it wouldn’t be Murph.

‘How?’

‘Awright, but don’t touch anythin’ else.’

He knew he might as well have been asking a thirteen‐
year‐
old looter in a toyshop. Wee Murph was the kind of boy for whom the ‘easily distracted’ tickbox had been added to school report cards. Lexy replaced the lid on the raided crate, by which time Murph was already into another one.

Murph whistled upon seeing the contents, letting the note out before remembering the need for quiet.

‘Shhh.’

‘Fuck. Sorry.’

The blue box was full of paper‐
wrapped packets marked ‘DEMOLITION CHARGE – EXTREME CAUTION’. They looked like slabs of butter, enough to make about ten thousand packed lunches.

‘Don’t,’ he said simply. Wee Murph shook his head. No arguments. It didn’t stop him opening another blue box, right enough. More of the butter that went boom, and there were four more crates the same colour.

‘Aw fuck, man, this is … this …’

‘I know.’

‘Whit we gaunny dae?’

They both looked to the door, thinking the same thing. It was a good thirty yards to the cover of the trees. The sound of running would definitely attract attention, while walking softly increased the time that someone could come out and spot them, especially given the amount of activity surrounding the truck already. Chances were someone might see them through a window too.

‘We’d have a head start if we ran.’

‘And once they’d seen us, where would we run to?’

‘Fuckin’ anywhere.’

‘That’s my point.’

‘We could outrun them.’

‘Could you outrun a bullet?’

Which ended the debate. Murph sighed, a long, slow exhale, which he cut off when he realised it was making a noise.

‘Sorry.’

His deflation only lasted as long as it took for his curiosity to replace it, and he was soon pulling back one of the draped blankets.

‘Check this. Whit is it?’

‘Christ, I dunno, but I hope it’s no’ in ma dentist’s catalogue. Bastard sentenced me tae two fillin’s.’

It was the biggest electric drill Lexy had ever seen, a glinting, gleaming steel beast mounted on an extendable suspension frame above a wheeled chassis. It was arguably an even more frightening proposition than the explosives, because at least they didn’t also boast a rubber‐
gripped joystick and keypad, bound to draw Wee Murph’s eager paws like a magnet.

‘Fuck’s sake don’t touch it. If you turn this thing on, next thing you know they’ll be shovin’ it up your arse.’

The warning might not have worked if the wee man hadn’t right then seen the only other thing capable of holding his attention.

‘Grub, man, look.’

Sitting on the floor, just inside the rear door, was a can of Coke and two Snickers bars.

‘Wan o’ thae guys must have stashed them so his mates couldnae cadge any off him,’ Murph observed, with the expert eye of one versed in the protocols of playground confectionery preservation. At school, you only had to produce a bar of chocolate for half a dozen cadgers to instantly appear, pestering you for a bit as though they’d just parachuted in from Ethiopia. They’d follow you around if you walked away, like a procession of Hare Krishnas, chanting their mantra: ‘Gaunny gie’s a bit, eh gaunny? Just wan bit, come on, eh, gaunny? Don’t be a Jew, man, gie’s a bit, eh, gaunny?’ If you wanted peace to eat your snack, you had to learn to do it in secret, and you had to make sure no‐
one knew you were ‘carrying’.

‘Finders keepers,’ Murph said, heading for the stash.

Lexy’s instinct was to warn him off, but he kept his mouth shut on the tripartite grounds that a) The bloke was bound to blame his mates; b) Wee Murph wouldn’t listen anyway; and c) he was starving. They scoffed the lot and drank the ginger between them in a matter of seconds, which was just as well because someone came out of the house just as they were finishing.

They stuffed the can and the wrappers in between two of the crates and scrambled back under the blankets. It struck Lexy yet again that this was an utterly pish hiding place – definitely no use at a competitive level – but the crucial factor was that (so far) nobody knew they were there to be found. Unfortunately, there was no ‘in den one‐
two‐
three’ either, and saying you ‘had your keys up’ was not a known defence against firearms.

Wee Murph was right, though. Since then it hadn’t just felt like hours, it was hours. There were people nearby constantly after that; not inside the truck so much, but walking around outside, coming in and out of the building, discussing, arguing or simply hanging about. Waiting.

Every so often there was a long enough lull for them to feel sufficiently confident to whisper, but they didn’t dare come out, and nor was there any reason to yet. They were safe where they were for the time being, though they had to hope that the folk in the house didn’t run short of blankets when it came time to kip down. For now, the only enemy that did know they were there was the ginger pressing ever harder on their bladders.

‘I cannae haud on much longer, man,’ Murph pleaded. They were both sure someone was outside, having heard a voice talking on a mobile.

It had been agreed that darkness would provide their chance. They would wait until it was pitch‐
black and then head for the trees, as quickly and as quietly as they could.

Unfortunately, it had been a bright, clear evening, with a full moon in the sky, which made the onset of night stomach‐
burstingly slow. There had been opportunities a little earlier, when it still wasn’t dark enough, but now that it was, there seemed to be an almost permanent presence outside the vehicle.

‘Can you die of a burst pish‐
bladder?’ Murph asked.

‘I dunno.’

‘I’ll tell you in aboot two minutes.’

‘Shoosh.’

They heard footsteps outside the back of the lorry.

‘Lydon,’ called a voice. ‘Green light. Get rolling.’

This was followed by more footsteps, more voices. The ramp was withdrawn and the roller‐
shutters pulled closed. Minutes later, the engine started again, covering the sounds of two boys urinating copiously and with blessed relief into a crate of nine‐
millimetre ammunition.